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Dream

of peculiar flowers/like sound of laughter/fluid in words you could spell/only after lettering down/libations on territories/virgin with mystic bites/of your footsteps/creating gardens/of hope beyond tales

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

the fan

it blows your smellout my windowwould a manor womanlike wet clothes on a line be touched by the sun, the wind for another wet dayinto a dance let this wind blow us and now I am wet from my cheek to my chestfor what is not fun out my window no woman or manmy door open, never locked, never looked inI touch for funwhile the walls speak blue and ashsleep will come in the morning with the sunsleep will die with memory it comes up to my throat and slides back downas I sit under the fan